


Natural Progression

by orphan_account



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-14
Updated: 2015-10-28
Packaged: 2018-04-26 08:36:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4998031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was a good rapport between all three of them. There were some bumps, of course, but it didn't seem too large in the grand scale of things. They were the Mystery Trio. Nothing could knock them down, and if something could, they'd just get right back up again.</p><p>And then things shifted, but it wasn't detrimental, more like a natural progression. A natural progression to a satisfying conclusion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Their relationship started simple enough. There was no vibrant call of sin, no back alleyway scandals, no seduction over bright colored drinks in a bar no one talks of except for in high scandalized tones. Nothing a closed-minded person would think a relationship like theirs would start.

No, it started innocently.

Fiddleford Hadron Mcgucket had been working for Stanford Filbrick Pines for two and a half years when it started.  By that time his marriage to his wife had gone cold and a swift and painless divorce followed, leaving Fiddleford with a frantic search for a new home. Of course, the twins were happy to have him stay for as long as he needed, which in turn turned to an eventual permanent arrangement, no questions asked.

There was a good rapport between all three of them. There were some bumps, of course, but it didn’t seem too large in the grand scale of things. They were the Mystery Trio. Nothing could knock them down, and if something could, they’d just get right back up again.

And then things shifted, but it wasn’t detrimental, more like a natural progression. A natural progression to a satisfying conclusion.

——

The first kiss was small and polite. A peck of congratulations. They just defeated a bunch of zombies by -kid you not- singing their hearts out to BABBA. Their chests were heaving and there was green gunk on all three of them, not to mention the horrifying stench, but it didn’t matter because they won and they weren’t gonna become horrible zombified people (they were gonna have to figure out how to cure the pizza guy, but later) and there was adrenaline and everyone was cheering. After hugging Stanford until he was breathless, Stanley took Fiddleford by the shoulders and pulled him close but didn’t hug. Instead his lips hovered just long enough near his cheek that Fiddleford became acutely aware of every puff of breath that hit his cheek, Stanley’s large frame, the hands on his shoulder with Stanley’s knuckle dusters caked in green goo-

Stanley hesitated for what seemed like forever before he kissed him on the cheek. It was quick. In just a blink, Stanley was moving back and giving his brother a large hug and that was that. Fiddleford didn’t think any more of it after that- they almost died, it wasn’t a big deal- before the twins roped him into a victory shout of, “Mystery Trio! Mystery Trio. Mystery Trio!”

—–

After that, it seemed Stanley, already a very tactile man, bestowed more kisses with each passing day. It was as if, by Fiddleford not saying anything about the first kiss, it granted permission for more. If he were honest with himself, which Fiddleford strived to be, he didn’t mind. It started slow at first, always on the same cheek and always for some congratulatory reason until it transformed into a symbol of simple thanks. Anytime Fiddleford did something Stanley thought was deserving, his eyes would turn bright, his body locking up with some hidden energy and a smile so bright. He would hug Fiddleford as tight as the mechanic could handle and give a quick peck on the cheek. Again, Fiddleford didn’t mind, it was just another way Stanley Pines communicated.

Now, when Stanford started doing it, Fiddleford was a little more shocked. It wasn’t that Stanford was a stoic person, the two scientists spent too much having fun playing D, D and More D for Fiddleford to think that, but all the same Stanford didn’t seem the type to give out kisses when a simple ‘thanks’ would suffice. When it first happened, after Fiddleford was just doing his job gathering notes for Stanford, Fiddleford wondered if Stanley was putting him up to it.

After Stanford reassured him that Stanley wasn’t planning some elaborate prank and that Stanford - and here Ford fumbled, his ears turning pink and his words mushing together-  just wanted to give thanks, Fiddleford wondered if it was a twin thing. Or maybe more specifically, a Pines twin thing.

He spent a whole day wondering about the reasoning behind the sudden new form of communication. It could just be that the twins did it with everyone they came to knew, but was afraid of scaring him off for his southern upbringing. It could be another miscommunication thing. The twins long ago admitted to not having many friends in their childhood, in fact, if Fiddleford interpreted it right, he was their first friend that could stand both the twins’ quirky charm.  It would make sense, depending on each other as they did and limited in their social interactions, that they didn’t quite understand the limits and what one should do and should not do with just friends. Of course, it explained quite a many things, the shower incident for one seemed more plausible put in that perspective.

At the end of the day, Fiddleford put all his thoughts on the subject in a box and threw that box under the bed. As long as it wasn’t some prank Stanley cooked up, it was harmless, and since it was harmless Fiddleford couldn’t think of a reason why he’d have to think further than that. Besides, he liked receiving kisses from the twins, liked the contrast of Stanley’s constant pecks in comparison to Stanford’s sparse ones. It made him feel welcome, it made the shack in the middle of the woods feel a little more like home.

———–

“Thanks for fixing the Stanmobile!” Stanley says, “It would'a cost a fortune if I drove it into a garage.”

“It’s no problem.” Fiddleford replies, grease on his fingers and a crick in his back. Not that he would’ve complained. “It was easy, just something wrong with the-” Fiddleford’s interrupted by a kiss on his clean cheek, the one not covered in motor oil, and there’s a squeeze on his shoulder and Stanley’s pulling back, but he’s still so close. He sounds sincere when he says, “I mean it Fidds. Thanks.” He also sounds very affectionate which sends a flutter through Fiddleford’s chest.

Fiddleford can’t help the own smile on his face. It’s always nice to feel appreciated. “Well can’t let the Stanmobile break now can I?”

When Stanley laughs, loud and boisterous, hooking his arm over Fiddleford’s neck to give the older man a good noogie, Fiddleford can’t help but think he’d fix a lot things around the house just for more of that pure-hearted cheer.

————–

Stanford’s been working in the basement for hours. Not that Stanford would know. They both know that time does not exist when science is happening and so when Fiddleford comes down the elevator to the basement he’s prepared for Stanford to not know that the evening sun has since set and that it’s two hours after dinner, too consumed by the joy of quadratic equations and the anomalies of Gravity Falls. He is correct in his assumption but he misjudged how stressed Stanford would be.

There’s paper littering the floor, chewed out pens with dried saliva looking like a dog just chewed them up and spit them out. Stanford's hair is a mess and his eyes don’t look too well either.

“I don’t get it.” Stanford mumbles to himself, looking at the chalkboard riddled with numbers as if it had done him some wrong.

“Stanford, Stanley told me you missed dinner.”

“I’ll be up in a sec.” Stanford says, waving his hand in dismissal, his eyes glued to the chalkboard.

“What’re you working on?” Fiddleford asks, having spent most of the day with his son. Ever since the divorce Stanford had been gracious enough to let Fiddleford have any day off he wanted for Fiddleford’s allotted time with his son and while Fiddleford would never choose work over ignoring precious time with his Tater-tot, he’d still feel guilty for leaving Stanford alone in calculations and usually tried to make up for it twofold.

“This equation- I don’t know what’s wrong with it. I’ve looked at it a dozen times over but-”

Fiddleford, eyes fresh and not burned from staring at one place too long, took two long looks at the equation and found the source of the problem. “Here.” He said pointing at the second row of numbers. “It’s mean to be a three not a five.”

Stanford’s eyes intensified on said misnumbered number. “Genius!” Then this will turn into a positive and that will turn into a fraction and the solution-“ Stanford wrote a shaky seven at the end of the equal sign. He turned to Fiddleford, grin on his face. “Thanks partner. I don’t know why it wasn’t connecting with me.”

“No problem Stanford. I’m sure you would’ve found it too if you took a break.”

“Yeah,” Stanford says, missing the subtle jab completely. He runs a hand through his messy hair, and turns to look at Fiddleford. Fiddleford doesn’t know when he picked up on the ability to tell when the Pines twins were about to kiss him, but somehow he must have. There’s something in their eyes, in the individual way they move that doesn't fit on the other twin, some sort of tell, an insistent energy to them, that he doesn’t have the capacity to categorize.  Either way when Stanford coughs and steps forward, hands clasped behind his back, Fiddleford turns his cheek appropriately.

“Thanks again.” Stanford whispers before kissing the offered skin. Stanford’s lips were almost always dry and cracked when he was working long like this. Not to mention his stubble always scratched against Fiddleford’s skin. His breath is hot in his cheek, the scent of coffee large and unwavering, and Fiddleford scrunches his large nose as something foul hits his nose, breaking through the scent of coffee.

“Phew, Stanford when was the last time you showered?” Fiddleford asks, holding his nose. He stops though when he sees the panic look that crosses his friend’s face. Stanford raises his arms to smell his pits and recoils, a blush on his handsome face.

“I am so sorry Fiddleford. It’s just- the equation, and I got distracted-” With every syllable Stanford’s face seemed to get even more red, until he resembled an unshaved sunburnt version of himself.

“It’s fine Stanford.” Fiddleford waves him off, at the same time trying to wave away the smell. “I understand. My wife used ta complain all the time after welding that I smelt like a broken down car on fire in the middle of a summer day.”

“I’ll just- go?” Stanford says, covering his pits with his hands. He backs away slowly before making a break for the elevator. Fiddleford watches him, amusement curling on his lips.

“Oh.” Fiddleford says, a recollection from earlier this evening coming to the forefront of his mind. “Tate and I went to the Greasy Dinner; I left some leftovers in the fridge. Eat them before you go to bed!”

There was a short, “Okay,” before the elevators closed.  Shaking his head, Fiddleford bent down and gathered all the papers and pens that Stanford no doubt swiped off the desk in his frustration.

He didn’t notice he was holding the cheek Stanford kissed until he walked past Stanley who was watching TV on the couch.

“What’re you smiling about Fidds?” Stanley asks, a teasing grin of his own coming to form.

“Nothing.” Fiddleford says, letting his hand drop away. “What do we have on?”

“Welllll…there’s nothing really. Infomercials, commercials, dumb reality shows, some black and white movie about a duches-”

“Move over.” Fiddleford says. Stanley complies with a laugh and Fiddleford hunkers down Stanley throwing an arm over his shoulder five minutes in, trying to disguise it as a yawn like the cheezy person he is. Fiddleford doesn’t mind though, Stanley’s built like a furnace and the couch is more like a big armchair, still a little small to fit two adult men, stretching to not feel numb is inevitable.

Half-way through the movie, Stanley shouts, “Hey sixer get in here. The Duchess is about to kick some ass!”

Fiddleford, entranced by the movie he’s loved since he was a kid, tears his eyes away from the TV screen and smiles at Stanford. His hair is wet from his shower and his pajamas are the cute light blue button down and blue pant outfit that makes Ford look younger than he actually is. He has a styrofoam container in his hands that Fiddleford recognizes as the one he put in the fridge earlier.

“What’re you waitin’ for Sixer, a standing invitation? Come sit your ass down.”

Stanford hesitates on the threshold. Fiddleford smiles, lifting his head from where he, at some point, laid his head on Stanley’s shoulder, and pats the ground with his feet. “You can sit near me.”

That’s all it seems to take. Stanford sits near Fiddleford’s foot, leaning against the leg of the armchair and starts eating. They sit together, watching the movie with much enjoyment and much tears. By the end of the night it’s just another night living with the Pines Twins.

(But also so much more.)

——–

After a few weeks of short pecks from the twins, it occurred to Fiddleford that he had an increasing urge to kiss them back. It would’ve been easy, just tilt his head down, aim for the cheek and there. Done. It was so easy that it was a wonder why he didn’t sooner. He supposed it was just ingrained in him not to do such things but, Fiddleford argued to himself,  if the twins could do it to him then he could do it back - and it was silly wasn’t it - having to argue to himself about something so harmless. It wasn’t as if he was poking the twins with a needle. So, he resolved to himself that at the next opportunity he’d give the twins a kiss.

After all Fiddleford wanted them to know they were loved as well. Wanted them to feel the warm fluttery feeling he got whenever the twins praised him, the proud drum beat of a well-loved heart. Just thinking about giving the twins the same treatment got his heart rate up.

The next opportunity wasn’t that far away in actuality. It seemed there was a lot of little things that would warrant a kiss on the cheeks, things that passed far too fast for Fiddleford to screw up the courage to go through with the motions: the way Stanley always had breakfast ready and a pot brewing in the mornings, the way Stanford always had a cold glass of water in his hands the minute he lifted his welding mask; it all seemed deserving of a kiss.

“Then why not do it?” His brain asked him. And it was right. Why not?

———-

When Fiddleford woke up that morning he made sure to gargle his mouthwash thoroughly. After receiving his stack of Stancakes from a merry Stanley, he made sure to be quick in his kiss. He missed his mark by a few, kissing nearer to Stanley’s ear but the sentiment was all the same. When he pulled back, Stanley smile was blooming, becoming wider than Fiddleford swore he ever saw. His eyes were brighter too and his cubby cheeks seemed to become particular round, fattening in delight.

Fiddleford felt fuzzy just looking at him. “Thanks for the Stancakes Stanley.” Fiddleford reminded himself to say, as he did every morning.

Stanley immediately went back to the stove, opening and closing cabinets. “Do you want more? I can make more. I’ve been practicing making shapes, I think I made one in the shape of the water tower the last time-”

“No, Stan it’s alright.” Fiddleford said, but even so, by the time Stanford walked downstairs there was three times the usual stack of pancakes in the middle of their little dinner table.

“Whoa, what’s the occasion?” Stanford asked after he got his morning coffee. He rested against the kitchen counter, hot steam fogging his glasses but even then he couldn’t miss Stanley swirling around the kitchen, grin wider than the lake monster was long. Or the stack of pancakes towering over a bloated Fiddleford.

Stanley didn’t answer but put some pancakes on a plate and handed it to Stanford. Stanford looked at it, coffee cup in his other hand. Instead of putting either object down, he lowered his head and nibbled on pancake. Chewing he asked, “Is this chocolate chips?”

“And blueberry, an’ whipped cream, and lemon, and red velvet, an’ some so fluffy it melts in your mouth.” Fiddleford listed, holding his large belly.

Stanford looked over his glasses toward Stanley but all the man did was shrug. His grin however, did not fade a bit.

Fiddleford looked at Stanley, humming in the kitchen, not a care in the world and reminded himself to give the man more pecks. It was heady, knowing just by a press of lips, he could make Stanley just a little bit happier. And it wasn’t like it was a burden on him, if anything it seemed to have the potential to be a guilty pleasure.

———-

The chance to kiss Stanford came the next day at work. It was kind of mundane in all honesty. Stanford offhandedly mentioned having purchased the new campaign for D, D, and More D for them and Fiddleford felt that it was the right time. He swooped low to kiss Stanford’s while he was doing calculations at his desk and that was it. No reaction.

Fiddleford would be a liar if he said he wasn’t a little disappointed. Stanford didn’t even twitch. Rushed by an onslaught of embarrassment by what could be deemed an invasion of privacy, Fiddleford rushed back to his desk and tried to get back to work.

Just as focus on his work was replacing his shame, Stanford spoke up.

“Did you…?” Fiddleford turned to find Stanford looking at him, a hand curled around the spot Fiddleford kissed. Stanford’s eyes were searching for something, his mouth open. Fiddleford repressed the urge to tell him to shut his mouth less flies fly in.

Instead he asked, “Did you just notice?” A few minutes had to have passed by since the kiss, and here Ford was, just registering it.

Stanford’s mouth clicked close and he turned back to his work. Fiddleford stared at the back of Stanford’s head, at the fingers that were moving but not picking up anything, and then he too, returned to his own work, confusion fading fast to make way for science. Still, he had the peculiar feeling someone was staring at his back throughout the day. Indeed, every time Fiddleford turned to face Stanford to ask a question or start a conversation, the other man’s eyes were already locked on his only to glance away. It wasn’t until the latter half of the day did the awkward air surrounding Stanford seemed to dissipate and they continued conversing in their regular tones.

Fiddleford found he didn’t mind the initial distracted air. It just meant Stanford needed to get more used to having his pecks returned.

————–

Of course Fiddleford wasn’t oblivious. He knew as the weeks passed on and the cheek kisses became nose kisses and forehead kisses and ear kisses and chin kisses that this might not have been as platonic as he first thought. A part of him shied away from this, the part of him raised in the deep south with all its charm and deep-seated close-mindedness, but a part of it embraced it. Embraced them.

He knew it would take time for him to fully come to terms with this - this slow romance; if that was in fact, the true nature of this- but he knew that it felt like the next logical step in their relationship; that at this pace, he knew he could ease into it and fall in love. For now though, he would let the twins lead.


	2. Item #2 Holding Hands

Winter gave way to spring and, as Stanford put it, spring was perfect field work time. Located in Oregon as they were though it was still a bit chilly in early spring- as in there was still snow melting on the ground and Fiddleford was pretty sure the poor squirrel on the roof hadn't defrosted yet. It didn't seem to matter to Stanford though, for flowers were still blooming in patches of wet grass and creatures were coming out of hibernation.

They were deep in the enchanted forest, fairies flying around them and a constant shadow following them, just out of sight. Engrossed in his journal, Stanford seemed to have a sixth sense for the unnatural, looking up only when the strange was happening and then immediately stuffing his face back into the journal again. He'd stop, jot down something, poke it with his black fountain pen and then move on, not saying much. Fiddleford and Stanley followed ten steps behind, taking in the sights; Stanley's anecdotes drowning out the noise of creatures newly awoken.

They had been going for about an hour when they crossed a river in the forest. It wasn't a fast river; nothing that could carry them away and didn't look deep enough to go past their knees; but it also didn't seem to be too wise to get their feet wet when it was still so chilly outside. Luckily there were three stepping stones in the middle of the river.

Stanford had no trouble crossing. He pocketed his journal for safekeeping in his trench coat and hopped on through, immediately pulling his journal back out once he got on the other side. Stanley had no trouble either, jumping full body and with such ground force Fiddleford was surprised the rocks didn't crack under his landing. Fiddleford went last and, of course, he slipped on the last stepping stone.

The stone was slippery. The river was flowing but Fiddleford suspected the smooth stone he stepped on was still coated with ice. Either way his shoes slid and to compensate he tried to dig in his toes but that just had him tilting forward into what he could assume to be icy cold water. He closed his eyes and embraced for impact but instead of water from his front, he had something pulling at his back.

He stopped, suspended almost 56 degrees as Stanley gripped the back of his tweed jacket.

"Jeez nerd, do we gotta hold your hand or somethin'?" Stanley lifted him like a crane, moving him by the back of his jacket and planting him on solid earth as if it were nothing. Fiddleford found his shoes were a little wet, and his clothes wrinkled but beside that nothing harmed. Pushing back his glasses that had slid down his long nose, Fiddleford thanked Stanley.

"Don't mention it." Stanley said. He turned to where Ford was already walking ahead, nose in his book. "Now c'mon, Sixer's mumbling again and I don't want him to run into trouble while we're not around."

Fiddleford nodded and power walked toward Stanford who had stopped long enough to draw a flower. It wasn't a flower Fiddleford recognized, he could tell even from a distance. It's vibrant blue hue seemed too unnatural for this world and it's long hunched stem swayed back and forth as if it were just waiting to uproot itself from the ground and walk away. Knowing Gravity Falls fauna and flora, it was in the realm of possibility. He almost offered to take some cuttings to take back to the lab but something warm grasping his hand stopped him.

Stanley stood to his right having just caught up, his hands slipped into Fiddleford's own. Stanley's hand was big and a little sweaty but also comfortably warm. Their fingers locked together.

"So you won't trip up or get lost." Stanley explained though they both knew it was an excuse.

"Hey Fiddleford do you think you can take some-" Stanford turned towards them for the first time in ten minutes and paused. He viewed their intertwined hands and only raised a brow before saying a quick, "Nevermind," before pulling out some cutters himself.

Fiddleford tried to step up to offer help, aware that while he was the twins' friends this was field work and his job was to assist, but Stanley didn't seem fond of the thought of letting go. When he glared at Stanley though, all he did was whistle with that smug insufferable grin as he squeezed Fiddleford's hand. It didn't seem to matter anyway because a few seconds later Stanford was already standing up, a sampling already pocketed away.

"Let's keep going." Stanford said, not bothering to question why his brother and their mutual friend were holding hands.

Their walk through the woods lasted another half hour or so, in which they kept holding hands. Stanley seemed happy enough, swinging their arms in broad arcs and talking as if nothing different was going on. Fiddleford on his part didn't mind except for when all the swinging tired out his arm, in which he would squeeze Stanley's hand and Stanley would stop. Only to start it up again later.

Half-way through their trek back, some rustling in the bushes had Fiddleford clamping on Stanley's hand embarrassingly tight. He hid half-behind the bulkier male- fearing what, he did not know-but still when only a lone Jackalope hopped out, wiggling its pink nose at them, he felt silly. He hoped he didn't whimper. He hated it when he whimpered.

"Don't worry," Stanley teased, as the bunny/antelope hybrid hopped away from them, "I'll protect you from the Jackalopes."

Heart still racing because of what was in all essence, a harmless little rabbit, Fiddleford tried to loosen himself from Stanley's grasp and maybe hide his shamed face in his hands. Stanley only squeezed Fiddleford's palms tighter in response. His eyes... Stanley's eyes seemed so gentle and, if Fiddleford dared think...loving, his soft smile lighting up his face and the pink tint to his cheeks from the chilly spring air making him seem too handsome-

"Ahem. Still here guys."

Fiddleford broke out of his reverie and felt the need to cover his face for a different reason. Stanley and he- they were about to-. Stanford was looking at him, or, no, at Stanley in particular, foot tapping, eyebrow raised and an unimpressed tilt to his lips.

Stanley didn't say anything in response but it was obvious he didn't like his brother's interruption. Stanford mouthed something at him but Fiddleford was too focused on staring at his shoes.

"S-sorry, I guess I got a little- we- sorry."

"It's fine Fiddleford." Stanford said, "Now let's go back to the house, I want to study my notes more thoroughly."

By the time night came around and Fiddleford was getting ready for bed, his hand was still warm.

\-------------

Fiddleford didn't know why but when Stanley held his hand, he expected his brother to follow. It made sense, or at least to him. It was clear that the twins were up to something and so he assumed whatever they were up to, they were up to together. Stanley started the kissing and his brother followed so when Stanley started holding his hand, he expected Ford to be not too long after.

Except he didn't.

Instead- and Fiddleford didn't know if it was just because he was looking in particular, or if it was all in his head- it seemed like Stanford was hiding his hands more and more, inside his pockets and behind his back. Out of sight. He shouldn't have been, if that was the case, Stanford should've known by now that he didn't mind his six fingers, but still he supposed something become ingrained into you, like the urge to hide six fingers, or the urge to hide a thick accent or the urge to laugh off any slights even if it hurts deep inside.

Never one to push someone out of their comfort zone, Fiddleford let it be. In some sort of recompense, he made sure to kiss Stanford twice as much. Except, even then Stanford seemed to shy away. It got to the point that Stanford kept staring at his hands when he thought he wasn't looking when he thought, enough.

"Stanford." Fiddleford called. It's been hours into the work day and so far Stanford's hands have been inconspicuous, hidden for the most part by long sleeves. His left hand isn't even on the desk, Stanford's thigh sat on it so it's hidden completely. Fiddleford only knows because he's sitting on Stanford's left side, in the desk that's still considered part of Stanford's work space that he'd usually sit in only if they were doing collaborations. His desk is on the other side of the room where they'd have enough space to work individually without stepping over any boundaries. He sat there at the beginning of the work day with the excuse of not wanting to disturb a delicate project on his own desk. Stanford let him sit down without a complaint.

"Yes?" Stanford asked and he looked like he wasn't even aware of it.

"Can you hand me the stapler?" Fiddleford asked. The stapler is more in reach of Stanford's left hand but just far enough that Fiddleford can't get it. When Stanford sets the stapler down, Fiddleford notices his red hand and the lines imprinted on his skin from his pants. The hand had to be stiff. Fiddleford wastes no time in loosely resting his hand on top of it or else let it disappear again. He felt it as Stanford's fingers twitched.

"Uh." Stanford said, staring at their hands as if this was out of thin air. Perhaps it was for Stanford but Fiddleford had been thinking about this for a long time.

"This doesn't bother you does it Stanford?" Fiddleford asked.

There's a dry second or two before Stanford squeaked, "Uh, no!" He coughed, once, twice, pounds at his chest and said, in the same kind of airy weak voice, "Go ahead- I mean, it's fine."

That's all he needed. He goes from resting his hand on Stanford's to lacing their fingers together, rubbing his thumb against Stanford's sixth finger. It only a feels a little different from holding Stanley's hand. Stanley's fingers are meaty, Ford's are only a little skinner and yet, the extra finger adds somewhat of a cushion. They were both sweaty though, that was undeniable.

And it's not like Fiddleford's never held Stanford's hands before. They've shaken hands lots of times over the years and they've had to grab hands to guide the other a few times when running from monsters. Fiddleford can't rightly say how many times they've grabbed each other's hands without thinking, without caring to think. Now though, it's different, prolonged in a deliberate manner to make a point.

A few minutes passed by in which they continued their work, when Stanford spoke, as if just realized, "You didn't really need the stapler did you?"

"Nope." Fiddleford said, popping the p.

There's silence, then- Kilck. Clack. Klick. Clack. Stanford clicked away at his black fountain pen.

"Stanford you shouldn't be so self-conscious."

The clicking stopped. "Self-conscious? Me? What makes you say that?"

So he hadn't noticed. "Stanford you're wearing a long-sleeved shirt in the warm basement and you have indents on your hand from sitting on it for a full hour. You've been fiddlin' with your cuffs all week, and you've been hiding your hands any chance you have."

Stanford seemed shocked at the words coming from Fiddleford's mouth. Fiddleford himself was skeptical of his own conclusion at first. Stanford rarely gave any signs that his hands bothered him. He knew there was stories of insecurity in his childhood years but by the time he met Stanford during college all that seemed behind him. There was a nervous gesture here and there but it fell away as they became friends and now, with his beloved journals imprinted with his six fingers, it seemed preposterous that Stanford to still feel the effects of something so long ago.

Some things never leave us, it seems.

Not thinking twice about it, Fiddleford brought Stanford's hand close to his lips.

"You should know," Fiddleford made sure to look Stanford in the eye,  "I don't mind your six fingers." Tenderly Fiddleford kissed his palm, letting his lips brush against the top of Stanford's knuckles.

It was silly, they had been giving each other little smooches for weeks now and yet it was different. Usually they got close and kissed each other on the face but when he did that, he didn’t get to see the exact moment when the other registered it, didn’t get to see the other’s eyes before, during and after. Now, Fiddleford could see as Stanford swallowed, as his face got red, as Stanford’s gorgeous brown eyes focused on him and the swipe of his tongue against dried lips-

Even though it was a little kiss, a kiss on the palm no less, and he wasn't even on the receiving end, Fiddleford felt heat creeping up his neck.

Before he could say anything, Stanford stood, his hand slipping from Fiddleford's fingers. "I-I need to use the restroom. I'll be back shortly." Fiddleford watched him go and stifled the giggled that almost escaped his throat when Stanford almost tripped over his own wheely chair in his haste.

He resumed his work at the sound of Stanford entering the elevator, a smile on his lips.

\----------------

Twenty minutes passed by the time Stanford came back. He sat down on the chair and smiled at Fiddleford, his eyes pleading for attention.

"You changed shirts." Fiddleford noted.

"Yeah, I thought it was getting a little too hot in here." Stanford said. Instead of the long turtleneck Stanford had switched to a light blue button up with short sleeves that only went mid down the upper arm. His hands were on the desk, plain to see, and Fiddleford was glad to find the red coloring and indents had faded from Stanford's left hand. Stanford stared at Fiddleford in silent anticipation, plainly  waiting for his approval.

Fiddleford hummed, a smile curling at his lips. "Is that why you're collars popped and the first two buttons of your shirt are undone?" He pointed at the light blue shirt, rumpled and revealing just a tease of his friend's collarbone.

"Oh, uh Stanley did this- I just-" Stanford started flattening his shirt, retracting his hands from the desk to fix his shirt and come back his ruffled hair.

Fiddleford laughed at the flustered expression Stanford made, cursing Stanley not so quietly as he tucked in his shirt.

"Do I look good?" Stanford asked, his shirt tucked in and buttoned up and his collar down turned. His hair though was a mess. Fiddleford stood, raking his fingers through Stanford's hair until he deemed it acceptable, then he nodded and took a step back, ignoring Stanford's red face.

"Dashing." Fiddleford said. He wondered if he should comment on how Stanford shouldn't've buttoned his shirt up because he missed the view but in the end he didn't want to overload his boss. All in due time. He went back to work and Stanford did as well and it wasn't long until they were holding hands again. Fiddleford was glad that he was left-handed because it meant both men could continue working on their individual reports and still hold each other's hands. Every now and again they'd have to pick something up with their hand but it wouldn't be long until they were intertwined again.

By the time dinner arrived, specially delivered by Stanley because they had forgotten,  they were still holding hands. Stanley, at the sight of it, gave Stanford a thumbs up which Fiddleford pretended he didn't see and a whispered, " _Told you he wouldn't mind. You worry for nothing sixer._ " That he pretended he didn't hear.

After that holding hands at the spur of the moment became a regular tradition in the house.


End file.
